Kiara Moriarty - Ghostly
by Valkyrie Of The Dead
Summary: Kiara is considered dead for six months before she surprises Mycroft in his office, visible alive and okay. But where was she during that time? What is really going on inside her head? And what consequences will she have to carry because of choices she sometimes doesn't even realise she made? Sequel of Kiara Moriarty - Shadows. Trigger Warnings inside.
1. Fire

**So, here it finally is. Sequel to Kiara (which, as you might have noticed, I have renamed to 'Kiara Moriarty - Shadows'). I can't promise you a reliable update schedule (wow like I ever had one) but I will do my very best to complete this story. It will not be as long as the first one (which from now on I will only refer to as _Shadows_) but I hope you'll like it anyways.**

**As said, it might take long because I am not really in the fandom any more. I still love the show and will watch it when the new episodes air, but I am not in the fandom (at least on tumblr) any more, for various reasons. So I might write them a little funny, or like Dean and Sam. If I do, I'm sorry, please tell me.**

**Anyway, enough talking, here's the first chapter of _Ghostly_. **

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><p><em>14th of May, 2013<em>

The shackles are open and the room is empty.

Moving hurts, but when I realise those two facts, I push myself up and bite down hard on my lip. I'm not sure whether the blood I taste is old or new.

The floor of the cell is cold and damp, and I am shivering, and not only because of blood-loss. Everything is confusing me, the room is spinning, and though I can hear shouts in the far distance, there's no sound closer than twenty meters or so. I have no idea what's going on. My hair is still wet, my throat still rough from choking and gagging up the water and my knee is still sending bursts of pain through my whole body every time I put weight on it, so the last session wasn't that long ago. So why am I alone here, no one watching me, taunting me, hurting me?

The sirens are very quiet, but after I hear them the first time, I don't loose their sound again. They are coming in my direction, and the tears of relief well up, no matter how hard I try to suppress them. I don't know whether it's Sherlock or Mycroft, or maybe Lestrade. I don't know whether it's the police. I don't even know whether this place, wherever it is, is their destination at all.

But still, hope is a treacherous thing, and my heart tells me again and again that it's them, that they found me, that it's finally over.

I wrap my arms around myself, hoping to keep myself minimally warm, even though I know how much more difficult will be for me to react quickly. On the other hand, the chances that I would be able to defend myself are low anyway.

That's when I hear the fire. It's quiet, not yet a roaring monster, but a low, threatening sound – coming closer, cracking, whispering, silently consuming whatever stands in its way. It's horribly close.

I stumble towards the door, mysteriously open, whilst real fear claws up my throat. Fire like that doesn't judge, doesn't care, it simply kills. Without mercy, without remorse.

The sirens are still too far away, and now only make me want to cry. Help so close but not able to help me.

Suddenly a memory overwhelms me. It's Mycroft, and Sherlock is next to me, but it's not in his study.  
>Sherlock and me are standing close to the door, looking with horror at Mycroft tied to that chair, head pulled back by Anthea's hand, back, arms and hands bleeding, shaken to the core at Anthea's betrayal, and still, still he pushes back with his hands when the knife is in the right position, right into her stomach.<br>It had been a situation in which we all could have died, in which he nearly had died, but he hadn't given up. He kept going, he fought back.

The memory gives me the strength to keep going, to force my feet to move. I leave bloody footprints behind, but I don't care. It's either this or lying down and giving up, and I can't do that.

Death has been a constant companion to me, throughout my whole life, though never really feared. It has been my way out, my light at the end of the tunnel after Father's death.  
>But now, now that it's so close and so easy and so damn simple that I don't want it. It was supposed to be my choice as soon as Moran was gone, but this isn't choice, and this isn't going to happen.<p>

The smoke comes from the right corridor, so I take the left, bracing myself against the wall now and then, but never stopping.

Everything is deceptively silent, and then it's there. Huge, roaring red flames, behind me, to my left, to my right. Smoke is hurting my already rough throat even more. My eyes sting and the heat makes my skin itch.  
>My whole body hurts, but the thought of Mycroft keeps me going – if he could, so can I.<br>The heavy sob rips itself from my throat when I reach a room I recognize. It's close to the back end of the warehouse, and fairly open, the fire hasn't reached all the exits yet.

The heavy piece of stone or metal or wood crashes down on me and I fall to the floor. My head is hurting at the back where I can feel the rapidly swelling bruise, and everything around me seems to spin and turn.  
>A second, though smaller piece hits the floor a meter away from me, a piece of burning wood breaks down behind me.<br>Something heavy and hot smashes into my left leg, burning the skin of the back of my calf.  
>I can only groan in pain, my throat hurts too much and there isn't enough air in my lungs to scream.<p>

Everything goes darker and then I see someone standing in front of me. It looks like Andy and David, and with a burst of guilt I realise that I haven't thought of them in ages.  
>Before I can do anything else, the black comes up and pulls me down.<p> 


	2. Lost

**Well, here it is, chapter two :) In case you're curious throughout the chapter why things don't quite add up, keep reading. You'll find out in the end.**

**Thank you very much _TraiterousFreshman15, _who has been beta'ing this and the last chapter for me. Enjoy.**

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><p><em>14<em>_th__ of May, 2013_

_Smoke. __D__rifting around me, scratching my throat, getting stuck in my lungs with every single breath I take._

_It doesn't fit to what I'm seeing around me. There's the beach, the cream and grey coloured sand soft beneath my bare feet, the waves are small and don't really splash._

_It's early. The sky is a baby blue, dark behind me but becoming__soft pink in front of me, even though I can't see the sun itself yet._

_The wind twists my wild red hair around my head, it gets stuck on my dry lips__,__ which I keep wetting._

_Why do they taste of smoke and ash?_

_The waves get higher, crash__ing__ on some rocks that weren't there before, but they are still tame, only sometimes reaching my knees._

_The splashes on the rocks __nearly reach__ the mental two meter mark I put there._

_The sand under my feet is rougher__as well, only grey now, with little pieces of broken shells and small rocks that roughen up the previously smooth skin under my feet._

_They look smaller than usua__l__, a small scar on my left ankle more obvious than I'm used to. It hasn't looked like that since I got it, and that was when I was six._

_I look around again, back to the dunes, grown over with small spots of grass and plants._

_I remember this beach. There is a small lock of hair on the rocks, stuck between two of them, and I liked to imagine that it was from a girl, running somewhere, her blonde, silky hair getting suck between the rocks._

_I remember slipping on those rocks, my fingers bleeding._

_I remember this moment, Father standing behind me, one hand on my shoulder._

_This is in Denmark. This is from years ago, I'm sixteen now, so ten years ago. This is impossible._

_The smoke wafts into my nose again, around my head__,__ and I start coughing. Turning my head, I try to listen to something which doesn't fit here, not on this calm, quiet beach, not in this memory._

_The quiet rustling of flames eating away fabric, the cackling of the fire._

I open my eyes and I lift my head from where it was, laying on concrete floor, and look around.

There is fire everywhere.

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><p>How I get out is nothing but a blur in my mind. I remember the agony of walking with my left leg, even though I don't know what happened to it. I don't have the courage to look at it, the probability that I will fall down and not get up is too high.<p>

I stumble more times than I want to think about and at least twenty centimetres of my hair burns off. Still, it seems longer than I remember.

When I am outside of what I now recognize as a warehouse everything gets a lot clearer. It's easier to breathe, though there is still a huge amount of smoke in the air, and I am away from the flames.

I'm not sure yet where I am, or what's going on, or why everything hurts. At least I am out of the inferno of flames and there seems to be no other danger at the moment.

Only a moment later I scold myself for that thought, for being so optimistic. There are police cars standing in front of the building, and many officers swarming around them and around the entrance. Too many.

Swearing quietly I limp backwards as fast as I can, if they see me, I'm as good as dead.

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><p>I get lost on my way twice. I don't know why things aren't like they were, shops different and once even a completely new street, but I push it to the back of my mind. Worries and suspicions can wait until I'm safe.<p>

Honestly, it's a miracle that I find the house as quickly as I do.

But even here, things are different. It's scary, it feels like so much time has passed even though I only ran away two days ago. Approximately. I don't know for sure for how long I was in that warehouse or how I got there, but it can't have been that long, can it?

The door opens and I nearly fall down the steps behind me. The woman looks like she is in her late forties, dyed blonde hair with the grey visible at the roots, too much make up, and clothes made for people two decades younger than her.

"Yeah-" she starts, but then sees me properly and stops in the middle of the word.

"My god, what happened to you?"

I use my left hand to wipe across my face, it's sticky and disgusting and my pinky has blood on it when I look at it.

"I -" I start, and look at the number hanging beside the door, proclaiming this as exactly the house I'm looking for – so what is that woman doing here?

"I'm sorry, where are Andy and David?" I try to deflect her question, I don't want to have to explain something I don't know myself.

"Sorry, who?" She asks, off guard, she didn't expect the question.

"Andy and -" I stop, and memories flash before my eyes – not complete scenes, only small details – the different streets of London, me not knowing how I got into the warehouse. Time has passed between me running away from here to get away from the news of Father's death and waking up in that warehouse. But how long? What happened? I try to scour my mind but there is nothing, only a blank spot, like I slept through the whole time.

"The people who lived here before?" I try again, and this time she smiles tentatively. The confusion and worry is still clear in her eyes.

"I – I don't know where they live now, my husband and I moved in here about a year ago -" Her voice tapers off into silence, probably because of my facial expression. A year? How on earth?

"Erm – I do have their phone number though?" I nod blankly, still trying to work through everything in my head.

"Come in, I will call them and they can pick you up, okay?" She asks, still sounding worried and confused, so I croak out a yes and follow her into the kitchen.

It's different to how I remember it. Darker. A laugh bubbles up from somewhere inside me, a hollow laugh in a completely serious situation. Father, the criminal mastermind, and baddie in so many crimes had a lighter colour-scheme than this ordinary woman. How ironic.

"Are you alright?" The woman asks, and only then do I realise that I don't even know her name.

I nod once, twice, and even though she doesn't look convinced, she takes a step back. Gets a glass out of a cupboard and fills it with water, puts it in front of me.

"I'll call them now if you want? What do you want me to say to them?"

"Tell them Spitfire. They will know what it means." It feels wrong to abuse the name and what it means like that, to give it around to complete strangers, but I don't dare give her my real name. A year has passed at least, and it's all blank. Who knows what happened in that time?

She calls them and I can hear a voice on the other end, but the words are indiscernible. Everything goes quiet for a minute after she tells Andy or David, whoever she is talking with, the name, and only after she asks twice for them to answer do they start talking again.

"He said he'd come pick you up right now. You're not in trouble, are you?" I look at her now wary face, and shake my head.

"Okay. Do you want a coffee or something while we wait?" For a moment I wonder why she hasn't just kicked me out. On the other hand, I do look rather unthreatening and probably lost.

"Yes please." She gets up to some kind of coffee maker on the counter and I reach for the paper on the table.

I stare at it, not believing my eyes. The news is something I can't follow, not really surprising since politics and other matters haveprogressed in the year I'm missing. But the top of the page is what I can't tear my gaze away from.

"Sorry, is this today's paper?" I ask weakly.

"Today's or yesterday's, don't know, why?" She replies, not turning around.

I can't breath, only realising that I moved when my back hits the wall, only realising that I started screaming a few seconds after I hear the high pitched sound.

The date at the tops of the paper says 2013. 14th of May, 2013.

I lost two years.


	3. Dreams?

**Hello people - I'm still alive. Doesn't seem like it I know, and I'm sorry, but this chaoter for one was really hard. So yeah. I can't really promise you the next one will come sooner, but I'll try.  
><strong>

**Anyway, enjoy!**

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><p><em>14<em>_th__ of May, 2013_

The woman tries talking to me a few times, but I block every attempt by shaking my head roughly. The corner I'm sitting in feels reassuringly steady, a little constricting, but better than the now seemingly huge room around me.

It takes slightly over thirty minutes until the doorbell rings, a chippy little three tone melody. I stay sitting in my little corner as the woman walks to the door and opens it, says a few words and then waits for the person at the door to come in.

It's both of them, Andy and David, I'm pretty sure I can recognize them by footsteps alone. It might have been two years but I can't remember them. In my mind it's only been a few days.

I can hear them gasp and I look up. They look older, both of them. Andy's hair is a lot thinner and he is starting to have a bald patch, and he has a few more wrinkles, but he looks healthy. David's hair is almost completely grey now, and it suits him. Together with his dark skin it makes him look wise.

In this moment, now that I see them with a time gap of two years, I can see how old they really are. They never seemed that way, always seemed young and vibrant, but now I see their age. They are in their middle forties now, after all.

"Kiara?" Andy says, his voice almost giving out, and that breaks me out of my reverie.

Jumping up, I hurry closer to them, throwing myself into David's arms. It's not a conscious decision, not made of like or dislike, but he is physically closer. Right now they are the only thing that connect me to my past, and I need to feel their presence.

David hugs me, first slowly, shocked, but then his arms tighten and it is almost crushing me. I hold on, though. The force holds me together right now.

"Bring me home. Please, take me home." I cry, my shoulders already shaking from suppressed sobs.

Andy grips my shoulder tightly for a moment, almost as if to reassure himself that I am real, then turns around to the woman. I can hear a murmured thank you without any real explanation, then I am out like a light. The blackness is soothing.

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><p><em>When I wake up, I keep my eyes closed. I strain my ears in the hope to find out where Watson and Holmes are. It isn't hard, neither them nor the third man, who are in the living room, are quiet. They are arguing, and I smile widely. The third man is probably Lestrade, and he is - what did Watson say? - a good escape route.<em>

_Without making a sound, I get up and start looking through the drawers. Maybe Holmes, as I am pretty sure this is his room, has got something I can use. After all, he must have many enemies. And I am lucky – in the top drawer of his night stand is a small handgun with bullets. I put them in the gun and pick it up. It feels good in my hand, it isn't as big as the ones Father has and my hands are quite small. I might even keep this one._

_I can still hear the arguing, especially the voice of Lestrade, so I grip the gun with both hands. When I kick the door open, everyone looks at me in surprise and I narrow my eyes even further._

"_Hands up, now, and stand in a line!" I say loudly and point the gun at Watson. They comply slowly, Holmes' face completely closed off, Watson's and Lestrade's rather shocked._

"_Thank you for your flattering view of my innocence, but it takes a lot more to knock me out for more than half an hour." Lestrade is looking from Sherlock to Watson and back, but they are both focused on me, not noticing his confusion._

"_Hello, DI Lestrade, my name is Kiara Moriarty, daughter of Jim Moriarty. Not that it'll do you much good, having that knowledge." Silently thanking Father for his determination to make me learn shooting and his never ending lessons, which are mostly by Andy and David, but he also teaches me now and then when he has time, I don't have to aim for very long, I just fire two shots in very quick succession – and Holmes and Lestrade fall to the floor, shouting in pain, each clutching their bleeding thigh. It's good to know they're not in imminent danger, I know I haven't hit their main arteries, but I am sure it hurts like hell._

_Watson twitches, I'm not sure whether to help them or to attack me, but I aim my gun at Holmes head._

"_No, no, Dr Watson, I think neither of us want that, right?" He growls, anger obvious, and for a second I am glad I am not in his reach._

_Switching the aim of the gun to Lestrade's head, I look straight into his eyes. Father was talking about it not long ago, he started including and teaching me about the web a few months ago, and I can see Lestrade is still caught up in the latest case Father had constructed – or rather which Moran had constructed. To Father's amusement and my surprise, Lestrade was doing rather well, following the right clues and interrogating the right persons._

"_By the way, DI Lestrade, you were doing well." Narrowing his eyes, he slightly turns his head to the right, looking at me in bewilderment, still clutching his bleeding leg._

"_Your case in the moment. It was the husband's father." Just as I speak the words, I can hear Watson's sharply indrawn breath and I'm sure now he realised what I am going to do._

_People always say pulling the trigger is hard, the guilt after the first kill a horrible burden. I have not felt that way, even at the age of eight, but maybe Father had been a huge influence – while teaching me that killing without reason, be it money, ambition or revenge, was not a thing I was allowed to do, he also taught me to make myself the most important thing. He didn't completely succeed, he is more important to me than myself, but it showed me that it was me or them._

_So just like seven years ago, pulling the trigger is not hard. The bullet shoots right through the forehead of the DI, slightly above his nose, and he slackens, falling to the ground. Blood is behind and around him, and there is a steadily growing puddle, but even better are the two shocked gasps I hear from Watson and Holmes, and then the shouts of Lestrade's name._

_In less than a second, the aim of the gun is already on Holmes' forehead again, stopping Watson in his movement towards me. Holmes hasn't moved besides a small twitch, but I know he is surprised and in bad pain, even though his face betrays nothing. Watson on the other hand, is smiling in a way that makes me shiver._

"_It doesn't matter whether I stand still or attack you, does it?" He says, and his voice is deadly calm._

"_Our emergency contact will be here in ten minutes, minimum, and -" He is interrupted by the voice of a woman, probably at least twenty years older than Holmes and Watson, who is shouting up the stairs to us._

"_Sherlock? Are you all right? If you're just bored and shooting the wall again, you'll be paying, dear!" she threatens, and I can't help but smirk. An old lady, telling Holmes what to do._

"_Everything is fine, Mrs Hudson. And you're late for Mrs Turner." Holmes calls down, his voice steady and confident, and I recognize it as getting the old lady out of the way._

_All of us are silent for a moment, listening to her quickly getting ready and then going out of the door, then I turn back to Watson._

"_You just killed an officer of Scotland Yard. That is something not even your father can fix just like that!" He growls, looking to the limp body and the blood of the dead DI for less than a second._

"_John, calm down." Holmes states calmly, and to my surprise, Watson looks at him for a moment, harshly breathing in and out twice, but finally nods._

"_What do you want, Mo__riarty?" He asks, and I can see in his eyes that he is aware he called me differently than I told him - a fire I associate with him already, after simply hearing about him from Father and knowing him personally for less than an hour.__ "__Why did you kill Detective Inspector Lestrade?"_

_For a moment, I find that blinking is a nice thing to do, especially as it gives me time to think about how exactly my response will be and how I'll continue._

_Watson was wrong, it is simple for Father to get me off the grid and not persecuted for the murder of Lestrade – especially as I'm not in the system in any way. But what of his plans with Holmes and Watson?_

_I feel the cruel streak I only see in Father when he is doing his job in myself, and suddenly I know what I'm going to do. It's simple – if Holmes and Watson manage to restrain me, then I'm sure, with Holmes' intellect, not even Father would find my body._

"_I don't want anything from you directly, Mr Holmes. I just want to be able to leave – and hostages aren't that bad either, with your contact coming." He frowns for a moment, but Watson already started shouting._

"_This isn't a hostage situation, Moriarty! This is an execution!" For the first time, I can hear real fear in his voice, and for a moment I'm curious whether he fears for himself or Holmes._

"_John." Holmes says again, his voice still as calm and steady as before, if not a bit more quietly, and a bit weaker – even his hold on his leg doesn't stop the blood from flowing._

"_Your right, Dr Watson. This is an execution. But at least you don't have to watch your best friend dying." His eyes widen as soon as I finish the sentence, but before he can really react I lift the gun and fire._

_It's almost in slow-motion, and as if someone had turned the sound off. Holmes just looks at Watson, and for the first time since I left his room, his mask really breaks. Surprise, worry, shock, fear, pain and anger flit across his face, but his eyes never leave Watson's face._

_Watson himself slowly falls backwards, hitting the floor with a loud thump, and lies still, not noticing the rapidly spreading puddle of blood._

"_John," Holmes whispers, and his voice breaks. And I know this is when he stops caring. He doesn't care that he'll most likely bleed to death if he lets go of the bullet-wound in his thigh. He doesn't care that I'm still in the room and can see him. He doesn't care I could shoot him any second now._

_He only cares that his best friend is dead, and that the spreading blood was inside a living human being only seconds ago._

_I lower the gun and watch him trying to get to Watson, watch him wince whenever he moves because of his leg, and see him break when he searches for a pulse and inevitably doesn't find one._

_He slumps down, his back not straight any more, but curling in on himself, pulling Watson's head on his lap, not minding that his clothes are soaked with blood within seconds._

"_John. John, wake up. John." His words are quiet, spoken only to his friend as he carefully touches the doctor's cheek, but I hear them anyway, and wait for him to look up into my face, with rage in his eyes._

_It takes a few minutes, but finally he does. But instead of rage, I see defeat in his eyes. His mask is gone, and I can directly see that he's broken, that nothing I could do now could be worse than this, than holding Watson's head in his lap, carefully stroking the weathered cheek and the sandy, but greying hair, with the huge wound on the doctor's forehead._

"_Why?" He whispers, and I'm sure he doesn't even realise there are tears in his eyes, one of them rolling down his cheek._

"_Because I could." I answer, and step closer, pointing the gun at his forehead again, but he doesn't react. Almost as if he has not even seen it._

"_And because Father promised to burn the heart out of you. Can you feel it, Mr Holmes? Moriarty always wins." I wait for a few seconds, wait for a reaction, but he barely even blinks. Just as I'm getting ready to shoot though, he opens his mouth._

"_I know you don't care about what I want. I know you don't feel remorse for this, but grant me one thing." He stops to look at me, and I tilt my head. For some reason I want to know what he has to say._

"_Do whatever you want want with the flat, my body, the gun you stole from me. But don't harm any more of my friends. Please, you've already won, so just leave them alone. And most importantly, leave John alone. Please." His voice sounds as if he's already given up, as if he's sure I'll say no, but somehow, his request impresses me._

_Switching the gun to my left hand, I lean forward and offer him my hand to shake._

"_I can't promise anything. But I'll ask Father to remember your request." After looking at me for a moment, he finally nods, knowing it's the best he'll get, and slowly takes my hand._

_We shake once, and I can almost feel his grip weakening with the amount of blood he has already lost, which is now mixing with Watson's._

_When I step back again, he touches Watson's cheek once, and whispers, "Wait for me, John.", before he looks up to me and nods. _

_I pull the trigger._

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><p>I sit up in the bed with a scream, tears running down my face even though I don't know why. I should be happy thinking about shooting the man responsible for Father's death, but here I am, crying desperately.<p>

It's strange, when I think about shooting Holmes in another situation, I don't feel any of that sadness. There is mild apprehension and worry, but also excitement and joy. So where are the tears coming from?

The urge to get out of bed is like an itch, growing stronger and stronger and almost impossible to ignore, so I get up and walk out of the room.

The house I'm in is unfamiliar, I'm unsure where I am until I see a picture frame on the wall. In there is nothing really special, it isn't a photograph or anything, but a little sketch made by a little girl's hand. My hand.

In the second room I try I find Andy, and he doesn't mind me lying down next to him while he sits on the covers reading. Closing my eyes, I try to fall asleep again.

It's hard, my head won't shut up.

It tells me that I am lying next to the wrong person, though I can't figure out who I should be lying next to. It also tells me that the dream was familiar, that it happened before, though I can clearly remember not shooting neither Holmes, nor Watson nor Lestrade.

The last thought in my head before I fall asleep again is the question why I want to keep calling Holmes by his first name.


End file.
